


Altar

by MissNaya



Category: DCU, Injustice 2, Injustice: Gods Among Us
Genre: Angst and Porn, Asphyxiation, Begging, Blood, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Facials, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Past Character Death, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pseudo-Incest, Semi-Public Sex, fighting-to-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: After the events of Injustice 2, Damian runs into Jason Todd. The two have some baggage to work out.





	Altar

**Author's Note:**

> I just know I'm gonna get jossed somehow when Jason officially comes out in-game, but I couldn't wait, I really wanted to write something for these two
> 
> no underage tag because, if my math is right, Damian should be over 18 by the time this happens. feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, though!
> 
> this takes place after Superman's ending, so **spoiler warning** for that.

“Well, well, well. Looks like Superman’s lap dog got off his leash.”

Across the alleyway, Damian scoffs. Neither he nor Jason have drawn their weapons yet, but he can see the twitch of Jason’s hand by his side.

“You look like you crawled out of a hole,” Damian says. “So no different than usual.”

“Try a grave.” Jason rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. The sound of it echoes off the walls around them. “I came all the way back from the dead to give brats like you hell. You should be flattered, honestly.”

Damian stops himself from rolling his eyes, but only barely. He steps forward a few paces, lifting his hand to the hilt of his sword. “You should get back in your casket if you know what’s good for you. Superman might not leave a body behind this time around.”

Jason laughs, though there’s no humor in the sound. “You gonna tattle on me? Daddy’s precious little bootlicker, helping him round up the scum. Real cute.”

It’s the first time someone else has acknowledged that Superman is more of a father to him than Bruce. Damian’s not sure how to feel about that, so he draws his sword and points it at Jason.

“I’m not kidding, Todd. You’re lucky you made it this long without being caught.”

Jason lifts his chin just a little, equal parts brave and taunting. “What, you giving me a chance to run? Shit, I didn’t take you for the sentimental type. ‘Specially not after what you did to Bruce.”

“Of all people, I thought  _ you _ would understand!” Damian snaps. He feels the bile-thick sting of anger bubbling up in his throat. “You know what has to be done! If you’d have just accepted our offer—”

“And what, join your little tyrant’s club? Please,” Jason scoffs. “I don’t take orders, especially not from douchebags who make like the kid with a magnifying glass and an anthill. Jesus, even I’m not delusional enough to think this One Earth bullshit is a good idea.”

Damian glares at him over the end of his sword. He shifts his stance just a little, and watches Jason do the same.

“Then everything that happens next is on you.”

By the time he swings his sword back, Jason’s gun is out. He parries to the side before Jason fires, and swings at him with a war cry. Jason flips away from his blade, and after that, they fall into battle mode, letting their instincts do the work instead of their mouths.

Jason’s not lithe and agile like Damian ( _ like Dick was _ ), but he has the moves of a trained Robin all the same. He’s gotten even more brutal with age, helped along in no small part by the Lazarus Pit. When he isn’t shooting, he’s ready with his fists, and every blow he manages to land hurts like hell.

Of course, Damian’s been training with Superman and Wonder Woman for years; a few punches aren’t enough to down him. But Jason’s got the brains to back up his brawn, and it isn’t long before Damian’s sword goes skittering off toward the other end of the alley. Damian returns the favor by kicking one gun out of Jason’s hand and twisting his wrist until he drops the other, and then it’s all hand-to-hand, like they’re back in the Cave.

The rest of the fight is as quick as it is vicious. Jason is a formidable opponent, and he’s got anger to match Damian’s own. Every punch, every kick, radiates with a thousand unspoken words, and even though they don’t speak, the conversation weighs down on him like a physical thing.

_ Why choose him? _

_ How could you think what you’re doing is right? _

_ Why won’t you just come home? _

Finally, the bend breaks, and Damian fails to pick up on a feint. In a second, he’s on his back, Jason on top of him, one wrist pinned down, the other crushed under Jason’s knee. He growls and bucks, but Jason’s bigger and stronger and doesn’t budge.

“Guess you were wrong, baby bird,” Jason’s voice is tense and breathless, and Damian is glad, at least, to hear him winded. “Looks like it’s  _ on you. _ ”

“Very funny,” Damian says through gritted teeth. “Get off me.”

“Nah. Nah, I think I’m gonna stay right here,” Jason says. “Maybe you can tell me what the fuck you’re thinking, staying with Superman. Huh? Gimme the ol’ brotherly heart-to-heart.”

Jason doesn’t sound like he’s actually looking for a teary-eyed powwow. Damian sets his jaw and steels his gaze.

“We were never brothers,” he says.

Jason barks out a laugh. “Damn, you’re cold, kid! You feel that way about Dick, too? Is that why you—”

“ _ Don’t. _ ” Again, Damian jerks in Jason’s hold, but this time, it’s more primal and infuriated than it is an attempt to escape. “Don’t you dare.”

Jason, as always, doesn’t listen. He sneers, “Is that why you killed him?” Damian opens his mouth to respond, but Jason steamrolls over him. “Adopted family isn’t family? Oh, wait, if that were true, you wouldn’t have sided with the fucking alien dictator!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Todd!” Damian says, close to shouting now.

Jason matches him in volume. “Oh, don’t I? Look,  _ kid, _ I understand why you did it in the first place, outta some doe-eyed belief that tyranny is the way to stop crime. But  _ now? _ After what he did to Bruce? Jesus, it’s fucking inhuman!”

Damian flinches. He tries not to think of his father, Kryptonian symbol on his chest, eyes purple and lifeless underneath all of Braniac’s tech. The sight had been broadcast worldwide, the ultimate symbol of the rebellion’s defeat.

“He wasn’t going to listen,” he says, quieter now. “It was either that, or he’d be killed.”

“Yeah, well, I think he’d have preferred the latter,” Jason says, and the undisguised disgust in his voice cuts better than any blade. “Not that you’d understand. Brainwashed brat…”

His free hand comes down around Damian’s throat, and Damian’s eyes widen. He can send out a distress call if he finds a way to get one of his hands free, or, failing that, he can just try and shout for Superman, but— But Jason’s grip is tight. His body is hard and immobile while Damian thrashes and squirms, legs kicking out at the filthy concrete walkway.

“Some people,” Jason says, voice strained, “don’t  _ like _ giving themselves over to someone else. Putting their lives in other people’s hands. Did you know that, Damian?”

Damian can do nothing but gag.

“Some people don’t like rolling over like fucking dogs,” Jason goes on. “Does Superman rub your tummy, huh? He give you treats? Must be worth it, to make you turn your back on your family.”

Damian’s vision swims. He tries to tap out Morse code on the ground with the heels of his feet, an SOS for Kal’s super-hearing, but it gets harder and harder to lift his legs every second. His attempts die out halfway through O.

“Bruce was there for you, Damian. He  _ loved _ you,” Jason says. “Fuck, you were his  _ son! _ And you threw it all away, for what? A pat on the head from an alien warlord? Was it worth it, huh? Is this fucking worth it?!”

Jason pulls away just long enough to punch Damian across the face with all of his strength. It sends his head snapping to the side, but he hardly cares about the spark of pain in his temple when he has more pressing matters, like catching his breath, to worry about. The air feels like a rasp going down his throat, and he arches up against Jason, trying to expand his lungs as much as possible. It feels— It feels—

“—Fuck.” The pressure on his hips increases, and it takes Damian a moment to realize Jason is grinding down against him. “Oh, shit. Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Damian’s head lulls front and center again, and he gapes, unsure what Jason is talking about at first. Then Jason rocks his hips just so, and the realization hits him like an anvil.

He’s hard. He’s in pain and out of breath and fucking  _ hard _ from it, and Jason knows.

“I— I—” Damian starts. But what do you  _ say _ in a situation like this?

Jason, for better or for worse, fills the silence for him.

“You fucking  _ like  _ this?” he asks, grabbing Damian’s chin and turning his head from side to side. It’s invasive. Prying. “This it? This why you like bending over for Superman so much?”

“It isn’t like that,” Damian says, hoarse. “I don’t—”

“Bull  _ shit, _ ” Jason says. “You don’t get that fucking hard when your enemy is choking you out. Never pinned you for a masochist, baby bird, but hey, whatever gets you off, huh?”

Damian’s halfway through “I’m not a masochist” when Jason’s hand closes around his throat again. He chokes, doubling up his efforts to get free, but every movement only serves to remind him just what his body thinks of his position. What’s worse, Jason encourages it, grinding into him every time he arches up. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on inside the other man’s mind with that expressionless hood over his face, but Damian thinks he hears Jason’s breaths get a little ragged.

“He ever hold you like this? Try extra hard to make sure he doesn’t accidentally pop that pretty little head off?” Jason asks. “He could just take what he wants either way, but I bet you give it up for him. Bet you squirm around his fucking dick and beg him for more.”

It should turn him off. It should make him go soft just thinking about Superman like that, but instead, Damian’s traitorous body throbs with need. He realizes that he’s less trying to get free now and more just arching up against Jason, and quickly stills his hips.

Still, Jason, cruel as ever, keeps grinding down. “You’re fucking disgusting, you know that, right? Selling out just to get yourself filled up like a sloppy cunt. Some master assassin you are.”

Damian wants to tell Jason never to talk about him or his lineage or anything of the sort, but all he can do is gape until he sees stars. The lack of oxygen dulls his mind, and after a few moments, his rage is overtaken by the stomach-churning lust that he can’t escape from no matter how hard he tries.

He’s finally given a bit of solace when Jason lets go, but it only lasts for a second before Jason slaps him, then backhands him. The indignity of not even being graced with a closed fist is almost too much to bear, but even now, his cock throbs. He makes a frustrated noise between gasps, refusing to turn his head to meet Jason’s eye.

Jason grabs him by the hair and jerks. Damian stifles a gasp, but doesn’t have time to compose himself, because the pressure on his skull increases while Jason’s weight lifts off of him. Jason stands, tugging him by the hair onto his knees, and though he’s free to tap the button on his utility belt to send out a distress signal now, he doesn’t reach for it. It’s hard to concentrate on much else besides the throbbing in his groin, the unfaltering hand in his hair, and the bulge in Jason’s pants inches from his face.

“Keep that mouth open,” Jason tells him. There’s an edge to it, something almost like hesitation, but he covers it up well enough by tugging open his pants with his free hand.

Then, just like that, the tip of Jason’s cock is level with his parted lips. Damian’s never done anything like this before, has never had the time or the drive to pursue anyone, but Jason doesn’t give him the luxury of keeping it that way. He pushes forward, hand tight in Damian’s hair, and Damian is still too stunned by the situation to stop him.

A second later, he sees Jason go for a holster on his belt, catches the glimpse of metal before he feels it against his throat.

“Bite and it’ll be the last thing you do,” he says.

Nevermind the indignity of being slapped. Having a blade pressed to his throat while he sits on his knees with a mouth full of cock is much worse. Damian considers doing it to spite Jason, but even quick intervention from Superman might not save him from a gash to the jugular. So he relents, relaxing his mouth to let Jason push in deeper, though he glares at him all the while.

His finger twitches by his side, ready to press his distress button. But then Jason says “Good boy,” and for whatever reason, his body betrays him for the second time today by staying still.

Jason starts to rock back and forth, and he’s  _ big, _ thick enough to make Damian’s jaw strain in his attempts to keep his teeth out of the way. His cockhead brushes dangerously close to Damian’s throat on every thrust, and when it finally breaches and cuts off his air again, he scrambles to grab handfuls of Jason’s pants.

“Not even choking,” Jason says. Damian can’t tell if he’s truly impressed, or if he’s just faking that intonation in his voice. “Knew you’ve done this before.”

Were Damian able to speak, he’d tell Jason that the League taught him to suppress such inconvenient functions when he was five. But he’s not, so he just glares some more while Jason forces himself, inch by torturous inch, into his throat.

Finally, Damian finds his nose pressed up against the dense hair at the base of Jason’s cock. His eye twitches, and he can feel his throat convulsing a bit at the intrusion, but he painstakingly keeps himself from gagging. The deep, steadying breath Jason has to take before he speaks almost makes the dishonorable position worth it.

“Christ, look at that,” he mutters, rocking his hips just enough to force a few centimeters out and in. “Too fucking pretty. Like your mother.”

Damian wants to protest or argue or ask questions, but Jason starts thrusting again, much less restrained than before, and all of his thoughts leave him like birds flying out of a coop. He can’t believe how obscene his own mouth sounds, wet and messy around Jason’s cock. A thin trail of drool cuts a path down his chin to his neck, and he shudders, still holding onto Jason’s pants like a lifeline.

Still  _ letting _ this happen to him.

It’s not right. It’s so far from right, just like getting hard from being choked was. It makes him feel filthy, small,  _ wrong, _ like one of the gutter trash criminals he’s spent half his life trying to eliminate. A sloppy cunt. That’s what Jason called him. He shakes with what he tells himself is rage, but the hard press of his cock against his uniform pants says otherwise.

He should stop this. He needs to stop this. He could disarm Jason quickly enough; it’s no large feat for someone as skilled as he is.

He doesn’t do it.

Jason scowls down at him — or, he imagines he’s scowling, but with that hood still on, it’s impossible to tell — hand tight at the back of Damian’s head. The other keeps digging his dagger blade into Damian’s throat.

“Y’know, for someone who gives it up so fast, you’re really not good at this,” Jason says. “Shitty brother, shitty son, shitty cocksucker. Least you keep it consistent.”

Damian’s eyes go wide, face ablaze with the weirdest case of shame he’s ever felt. It should be a point of pride that he’s not good at something so degrading, but all he can think about is how this is another point Jason can use to tell him how worthless he is. Damian has never been one to take stock in the insults of criminals, but the way Jason talks to him almost makes him feel like he deserves it.

To hammer the point home, Jason buries himself to the hilt in Damian’s throat again, and says, “Feel that? The way you clench up?  _ That _ feels good. They never teach you you’re supposed to  _ suck _ cock when it’s in your mouth? C’mon.” He digs his blade in until Damian can feel his blood, warm and wet, welling up around it. “Don’t be such a little prince. Do it right, or I’ll flip you over and fuck you right here.”

Without his consent, Damian’s cock throbs, and he grinds in place in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the pressure. He doesn’t want that, he  _ doesn’t, _ and he doesn’t believe Jason would have the guts to go that far anyway. And yet, entirely out of his control (so he’ll claim to himself and everyone else), he tugs his head back and hollows out his cheeks, exactly like he’s told.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Jason breathes. Damian likes the sound more than he cares to admit. “There you go, baby bird. That’s it.”

Damian bobs his head, trying to tell himself he’s the one in control here. He’s only doing what Jason says to make him lose control, throw him off his guard. The way he rocks his own hips is just to sell the image of himself as some desperate, undersexed teenager who’s been starving for someone else’s touch. He could have Jason killed in an instant if he wanted to. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

Then Jason steps forward, making Damian shuffle back until he’s crowded against a wall, and suddenly, he’s not so sure. The angle changes, as does the pace, Jason leaning forward to fuck down his throat with less interference. Damian has to crane his neck in this new position, and when he sucks, it makes obscene little slurping sounds that send drool spilling out of the corners of his mouth. Over and over, Jason thrusts and then stills, leaving Damian with barely enough time to catch his breath.

“This all it takes, Damian? To get on your good side?” Jason asks. That Jason uses his real name — has never actually called him Robin or Nightwing, come to think of it — makes something twist in his gut. “Like you even have one. Tch.”

That fuzzy feeling from when Jason was choking him out is starting to descend on Damian’s senses again. Everything but the pleasure turns into a dull roar, to the point where all he can hear past the rushing in his ears is Jason’s voice and the noises he makes whenever his cock passes Damian’s lips.

Eventually, he’s so grateful just to be able to  _ breathe _ again that he doesn’t fight it when Jason pulls out and lets his soaking wet cock rest on his face. It’s long enough that the base sits under his cheekbone while the tip juts out above his eyebrow; it seems impossibly big like that, with Jason looming over him.

“Anyone home in there?” Jason asks, lifting his knife to tap just under Damian’s eye with the flat of his blade. Damian realizes he wants to lick it at the same time he realizes he’s just sitting there with his mouth hanging open. Neither realization is good.

“Ah— Uhh,” he tries, but his throat hurts, his lungs are burning, and he doesn’t even begin to know what to say.

Jason presses down with the knife. It stings, but it doesn’t break skin. “Don’t tell me I broke you. C’mon; I know you can take more than that.”

Damian wants to say a lot of things. He wants to ask Jason why he’s doing this; wants (but not really) to tell him to stop; wants to apologize, which is the thing that hits him harder than anything else. His chest rises and falls as he takes shallow, urgent little breaths.

“ _ Jason, _ ” is all he says.

“Do you want it?” Jason asks, voice lower now. It’s as domineering as it is dangerous, and more intimate, somehow, like even though they’re in a filthy alleyway in public, Jason intends to keep him from the rest of the world. “Tell me the truth. You like it when I do this to you?”

Damian closes his eyes. “Stop talking.”

“No.” Jason slaps his cock against Damian’s face with a jerk of his hips. He nudges a steel-toed boot forward, pressing it against the impossibly ever-present bulge in Damian’s pants. “I’m not gonna let you pretend you don’t like this. Tell me.”

“Todd—”

The pressure on his groin increases. “Tell me!”

“Please!”

His voice is whiny, needy, unrecognizable. It’s not the voice of Batman’s son, of Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson, of Superman’s right hand. It surprises even him, but his hormones are hitting him like a meteor shower, and he finds himself  _ wanting _ in a way that’s too intense to bear.

He grits his teeth, flushed to his ears, and repeats, “ _ Please, _ keep going. Please.”

“Knew it,” Jason says. It’s a small comfort that he’s breathless, too.

This time, when Jason presses into his mouth, Damian greets him with a lapping tongue, sucking him in deeper. Now that his mouth is full, he doesn’t have to worry about talking, about defending himself or begging or anything like that. Being trapped between the wall and Jason’s overpowering form is far more intoxicating than he would have ever imagined.

Jason presses the hand holding the knife into the wall to brace himself. It’s a stupid move; overconfident, reckless, exactly the sort of thing he expects from Jason. If Damian wanted to, he could strike now, and Jason would be powerless to stop him.

But,  _ god, _ the way Jason pants above him keeps him rooted to the spot. He tries to wrap a hand around the base of Jason’s cock, but the knife clatters to the ground and Jason wrenches his wrist away, fucking deep into his throat. Damian feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, tastes a hint of something bitter, and gurgles out a moan that vibrates around Jason’s length.

“You,” Jason pants, “are a  _ fucking _ disgrace. You know that? A stupid, spoiled little cocksucker. I hope you’re fucking ashamed of yourself, traitor.”

Damian almost chokes for the first time in years. Jason doesn’t let up at all. It’s nonsense, it’s bedroom talk, it’s disrespectful and disgraceful and untrue, but Damian whimpers anyway, rolling his hips in an attempt to feel any sort of relief. Some small part of him tells him that he won’t find it even if he were touched properly, but that’s the part that believes the things Jason says, so he tunes it out as best as he can.

“So fucked up,” Jason says, softer. Damian’s not sure who he’s talking about this time. “So fucking fucked up.”

He tastes that bitter taste again, stronger this time, and Jason shoves him up against the wall so hard his head bounces off of the bricks. Then he pulls out, one hand pinning Damian’s hand to the wall, the other coming around to stroke his cock with fast, short jerks. Inexperienced as he is, Damian still knows what’s coming. His chest heaves, and he tries to decide if he’s turned on or disgusted or something else entirely, some new emotion that’s as weird as this whole situation.

When Jason says “Open up,” he does.

Another few strokes, and Jason’s groaning above him, shooting hot, thick ropes of cum onto his face. It hits his bangs first, then his mask, and Jason makes sure to aim at his mouth for the last few spurts. The experience is far more intense than he could ever have imagined, and he realizes after a moment that those choppy, breathless moans he hears are coming out of his own mouth.

He licks his lips and swallows. Uncomfortably warm beads of cum drip down his forehead and cheek. He’s trembling, legs spread wide where he kneels underneath Jason. Even though he’s the fully-clothed one, he’s never felt more exposed in his entire life.

“C’mere,” Jason mutters, dragging him forward by the back of the neck. He feels a leg nudge between both of his own, and he rocks against it without thinking. “That’s it. Get yourself off on me, lap dog.”

To say that the “kindness” is unexpected would be an understatement. Damian had been fully prepared to get himself off with his hands the second Jason turned tail to leave, but now, given this opportunity, he can’t stop himself. Pent-up frustration — from more than just this encounter, if he’s being honest — propels him forward, and he’s disgusted with himself for it, but he humps Jason’s leg like a dog.

“Bitch,” Jason says, breathless. “You’ve always been a little bitch, Damian. Say it.”

Damian shakes his head. A drop of cum drips off of his chin.

Jason lifts his leg, calf digging harshly into Damian’s crotch. “You’re a little pain slut and a traitor bitch.  _ Say it. _ ”

Damian nuzzles his face into Jason’s thigh, ragged denim scratching his skin. His hips rock even faster. “No.”

“You deserve this. You deserve to be  _ fucking _ ruined, like you ruined your family.”

“No!”

Jason’s hands, still around his wrist and on his neck, tighten. His fingers dig into Damian’s skin hard enough to bruise.

“Way you stuck your tongue out for a taste of my cum says otherwise, brat.”

Damian mutters something like “ _ Stop _ ” into Jason’s leg. He doesn’t slow down, not even for a second.

“Either admit you’re a bitch, or say you’re sorry,” Jason says, tugging his leg back far enough that Damian has to shuffle forward for contact. He’s stopped by the insistent press of the sole of Jason’s shoe against his crotch. “Both, if you want. ‘S the least you could do.”

“ _ Jason— _ ”

“Just  _ fucking  _ do what you’re told for once in your life!”

And Damian’s not sure what it is about the way Jason says it, but he sobs, thinking of Bruce and of Dick and of everyone else he’ll never get to see again. He sobs and drools a wet patch against Jason’s pants, and he lets himself go, sweaty and sticky and a mess, frame racked with a full-body shudder.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking  _ sorry, _ Jason, please, please—”

Jason doesn’t say anything, but he’s rewarded with his leg again, and Damian rocks up against it. He continues muttering apologies, and in that moment, he means them, wishing with every fibre of his being to be able to return things to the way they used to be. Jason is right, right about everything, and when Damian shudders and comes in his pants, it feels like a natural extension of that admission.  _ You’re right. I’m not worth it. This is more than I deserve. I’m so, so sorry. _

Jason’s hands remain tense on him while Damian pants against his leg. Then, after what feels like forever, he lets go and steps back, and Damian slumps forward, boneless.

Neither of them know what to say. Through the silence, Damian realizes he preferred Jason when he was talking. It was harder to think through all the noise. He sits up, wiping the drying cum off his face with the back of his hand. Without the warmth of Jason’s body pressed up against him, the cold really starts to sink in.

He tells himself it’s just the weather. That the emptiness he feels is because he’s just come.

“Damian—” Jason says eventually, and it’s not as aggressive as it should be, not as accusatory. Somehow, that makes it more disgusting than anything Jason’s said before.

(It reminds him of Bruce, reaching for him with that too-tentative look in his eyes.)

“Go.” He squares his shoulders, tries to look bigger than he feels, and puts on his best princely look, even with cum smeared on his face and his eyes swollen and red. “Before I call Clark.”

“Damian, we can still—”

“Go!”

That gets through. Jason backs up, rights his clothing, and turns away without another word, even more unreadable than before.

Damian watches his last chance at redemption shoot a line and disappear over the rooftops.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/) for more hot trash


End file.
